


D.A.D.

by MicrosuedeMouse



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Gallya, F/M, Family Fluff, Found Family, Future Fic, Gallya kids, Gen, Threeshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 09:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14493972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MicrosuedeMouse/pseuds/MicrosuedeMouse
Summary: “Am I a good uncle, Gabs?”-Napoleon Solo has been playing the loving uncle to Gaby and Illya's kids for eight years now. He loves being part of this family. When Waverly contacts him with some unexpected news, he has to reassess his life and decide what his priorities are, and how he wants to move forward.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is... kind of an experiment? I feel like it came out sort of understated but I do like it, and I want to set some more fics in this continuity at some point, I think. Anyway, it came out of me thinking about how I tend to headcanon Napoleon as a really great uncle to Illya and Gaby's kids, and also probably just good with kids in general - after all, he's charismatic and generally great at people.
> 
> Also, it turns out I give Gaby and Illya the same children in every continuity, because I'm all... attached to them. You'll see more of them in some of the other stuff I'm currently working on. This is just something we'll all have to live with, it seems. (Oh, and, I've also gotten really attached to the idea of Illya getting a Moscow Watchdog to keep his children safe. big soft man + big soft dog = my perfect recipe for joy)

Napoleon Solo can always count on a warm welcome at the Kuryakin household. It’s one of few constants he has in life that exist entirely outside of himself. If he shows up at that rustic little cabin, with the woods all the way around it and farmers’ fields only a five-minute drive down the road (town is another ten), he’ll be greeted with hugs and coffee and joy. Gaby will kiss his cheek, Illya will shake his hand, the girls will leap up into his arms – he hopes they’ll stay small like their mother so he’ll always be able to pick them up that way. Kostya, the massive Moscow Watchdog that Illya insisted on going home to Russia for when the girls were just toddlers, will lick Napoleon’s hands and shed hair on his trousers. He hasn’t got much of a history with family, but he likes being part of theirs.

He shows up every three, four months, on average. Usually stays for a few days. What they call the guest room, over the garage, is really just _his_ room. While he’s there he likes to help out – cook a few meals, play with the kids, usually even play babysitter for an evening so that Illya and Gaby can get a rare night out by themselves. Those children bring out a soft side in him that he doesn’t much care to show just anyone, but in this household he doesn’t mind. Karina’s been revealing that part of him since the moment she was born, eight years ago now, and everyone is used to it.

This time, it’s been almost five months, but he’s been busy. He brings the girls gifts from Egypt and Peru and Belgium, and he has toys and a blanket for Alex, as well – their youngest, only eleven months. Napoleon scoops the boy into his arms to admire him. “He’s grown so much!” he exclaims, not bothering to hide his delight with the child’s cheerful burbling. “He’s going to be as big as you, Peril.”

“Of course he is,” Illya answers, proudly. “He will be tall, strong, smart as whip.”

“With a Russian super-soldier for a father,” Napoleon jokes, “and a German spitfire for a mother, I imagine that’s the only way he could possibly turn out. Just like his sisters, hm?” He pats Marta’s head where she’s still hugging his leg. He’s already made sure to make a fuss over her growth spurt, too. She grins.

Napoleon takes only a few minutes to get settled in, passing Alex back off to his father and going to the living room to chat with the girls for a while. They always demand stories when he comes back, and he’s all too happy to regale them with tales of his dashing heroics. But he only stays for fifteen minutes or so, promising them more after supper. Returning then to the kitchen, he takes an apron off the hook on the pantry door and shoos Gaby away from the stove, taking over. Laughing, she leans on the kitchen island behind him and sips a glass of apple cider. They always seem to have it on hand in the fall. On the other side of the island, Illya sits facing Alexander’s high chair, pulling the faces he knows will make the boy laugh hard enough to be fed mouthfuls of mushy carrot.

For a few minutes Napoleon and Gaby chat idly about his most recent mission. Though they go into the field far less these days, Gaby and Illya are still in UNCLE’s employ, which means he can be fairly open with the details. It was a run-of-the-mill operation, though, he informs her; it’s not that exciting a tale to tell. Sweeping chopped vegetables into a frying pan, he spies Marta peeking in out of the corner of his eye, so he waves her in to take the vegetable cast-offs out to the compost behind the house. She goes gladly, proud to have a job to do.

Napoleon watches her skip away, leaning back against the counter with a thoughtful look on his face. After a moment he turns to Gaby and asks, “Am I a good uncle, Gabs?”

She tips her head and smiles at him, a touch of curiosity in her eye, but she answers, “If by good uncle, you mean the children adore you, and you spoil them and are generally a very mischievous influence? Yes, of course. And if by good uncle you mean you love them fiercely and you’re perhaps the only person we would trust to keep them safe if anything were to happen to us… I would say yes to that, too.” Illya doesn’t say a word, or even look up from feeding Alexander, but something in his posture suggests that he agrees with his wife.

Napoleon makes a small, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, nodding slightly. Marta trots back in with the empty bucket, delivering it straight to his hands, and he crouches down to kiss her cheek as he says thank you. Pleased to have been helpful, she bounces back to the living room to rejoin her older sister.

“Why do you ask?” Gaby finally pries, because Napoleon is simply gazing into the distance now. He shifts at the sound of her voice, meeting her eye after a moment, then turning back to the stove to check on the meal.

His back turned, he eventually says – in a voice so even he must have calculated it in the pause beforehand – “I’ve just heard that I’m a father.”

Illya’s attention snaps up from his son, a spoon hovering halfway between them. “ _What?_ ” he asks, and he’s so rarely taken by surprise that the tone amuses Napoleon in spite of everything. He has to swallow his smile before he turns back to them – and both of them are staring at him in shock, while Alex smears dripped carrot across the wooden tray of his high chair and blows bubbles with his mouth.

“Believe me, you can’t be more surprised than I am,” Napoleon says, trying for levity – but just a little bit, because if he doesn’t appear to be taking the matter seriously enough, he knows they’ll throttle him.

“What do you mean, you’ve _just heard?_ ” Gaby asks, confused. “How long has this– I mean, who–?”

“The boy is nine,” Napoleon answers quietly, and he has the sense to smile sheepishly.

“Nine,” Illya repeats, like he doesn’t believe what he’s heard.

“And you _didn’t know?_ ” Gaby demands, incredulous. Then she answers herself. “I mean, of _course_ you didn’t know. They’re all just notches on the bedpost to you. But then– how can you have found out? How could she have found you?”

“Well,” he says, “she didn’t. Actually… Waverly called me.”

Now she blinks, hard, and stares at him, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “Waverly? And how in the hell would _he_ know?”

Napoleon looks down for a moment, something suddenly terribly interesting about his knuckles. “She was one of yours,” he says softly, to Gaby, and by that he means she was MI6. Before she can formulate any more questions, he carries on, “We had a bit of an arrangement. It was mutually beneficial. Just a once in a while sort of thing, when I was in London and so was she. We were quite content with the circumstances. It only lasted maybe a year and a half, and then we just got too busy.” He meets Gaby’s eyes again, briefly, and sees the concerns she’s yet to voice. “Gabs, I swear – we got on well. We were even friends, after a fashion. Neither of us wanted a relationship. I suspect she didn’t tell me because she didn’t want me to feel responsible for the child, responsible for her. She was as independent as I am – I don’t think she would have wanted me to feel tied to her, any more than she would have wanted to tie herself to me.”

“What’s his name?” Gaby asks.

Napoleon isn’t sure why it matters, but he answers, “Leon.” Then he catches the look Gaby and Illya share, and he leans forward. “No no – I thought so too, but Waverly nipped that in the bud. He’s known about the boy for years, and says that Cynthia was always very adamant that it was out of no sentimental attachment to me. It was a family name. She lost her parents in the war, so she felt strongly about maintaining the tradition.”

They exchange another glance, but seem to accept this explanation. “…You keep speaking of her in past tense,” Illya points out, his unspoken question well-understood.

Napoleon clears his throat. “Yes, ah, that’s why Waverly called,” he says, looking at his hands again. “Something’s happened, rather suddenly, and… well, I’m the boy’s only living family, now.”

The way Gaby and Illya react is the most pronounced example of their bizarre psychic connection he’s seen in years. “And?” they both ask, rising to their full heights in tandem. Their expectations for him are clear.

“You two really are soulmates,” Napoleon mutters, glancing between them and their identical expressions. He wants to add – quite honestly – that he’s not sure who he ought to be more afraid of, but he realises that he’s in genuine trouble now. “I’m going to collect him, of course,” he defends himself, a little insulted that they don’t seem to assume as much. “He’s my son, for god’s sake. I’ve only known about him for three days, but I have _some_ sense of responsibility, believe it or not.” He glances at the vegetables in the frying pan, stirs them with the end of a spatula. “Give me some credit,” he adds, a little more quietly, without looking up. “I’m not a lost cause, you know.”

Gaby hesitates, more likely to show him sympathy than her husband is. “Of course not, Napoleon,” she says, stepping forward to place a hand on his shoulder. “But just because you’re a good uncle, that doesn’t mean you want to be a father. And we’ve known you to run from things that alarm you – at least at first. We’ve also known you to come back, after you’ve had a little time. We just don’t want this child to suffer any more than he already has, just because you panic.”

Napoleon is staring into the frying pans, sniffing Gaby’s stir-fry sauce and adding spices without measuring. “I wanted to panic,” he tells her, still not meeting anyone’s eye. “But he’s just a _child_. I can’t abandon him without so much as a word. I have to _try_.” He runs a hand back through his hair. “I’m not heartless. You of all people should know.”

“We do,” she assures him.

He moves the vegetables off the burner, then sighs deeply, leaning against the edge of the counter. “He’s in London. I’m supposed to get him tomorrow,” he finally tells her. “That’s part of why I’m here. I thought I’d spend the night and then take the train into the city in the morning.” Then, as hard as this has become, he turns to face her again, as well as Illya – who is sitting down again, feeding his son, but still watching his partner. “I know I’m asking a lot, here, so I want you to know that I’ll completely understand if you say no. I don’t expect anything of you. But I’ve been told that Leon quite likes other children, and I hoped that I could bring him back here. Just for an afternoon if that’s all you’re comfortable with, or perhaps for a few days otherwise. I thought it would be an easier environment for us to get to know each other in. Somewhere where I’m comfortable, and where he can visit with the girls, and where there are experienced parents around to turn to if I’m really lost.” He looks more desperate, more nakedly alone, than they’re used to seeing him. He’s genuinely baring himself to them, which is quite rare. “I have a lot to figure out still, but I feel like we both stand a better shot of making this work if we have the two of you to rely on. And if he’s going to stay with me, he’s going to have to get familiar with all of you soon enough anyway…”

Gaby doesn’t seem to even have to look at her husband for them to come to an agreement. Idly, Napoleon wonders when exactly they developed this method of communication, and whether it has anything to do with shadowy Soviet experiments on Illya’s brain.

“Of course you can bring him here,” Gaby says. “You’re family, Napoleon. And so is your son.”

He’s more relieved than he even realised he would be. He takes a long, deep breath to compose himself, then puts a hand on Gaby’s shoulder and squeezes fondly. She watches in concern until he gives her a nod, and then he turns towards the living room. “Karina, do you think you could set the table for us?” he calls, knowing that Illya is raising his girls to be helpful and responsible. The radio turns off and Karina arrives with a smile, kissing her brother’s messy face on her way past to the cupboard. She has her own stepstool so that she can reach the dishes – Illya made it by hand a few years ago. Napoleon tries to hold in a chuckle, remembering the summer visit when he’d glanced out the back window and seen Illya shirtless in the backyard, sawing down the planks, and Gaby watching from the deck with her lower lip caught between her teeth and a glint in her eye.

Fifteen minutes later they’re all sitting down to dinner, and Napoleon leans down to speak into Marta’s ear where she sits next to him. “How would you feel about me bringing over some company for you tomorrow?” he asks her. “I know a boy just a little older than your sister, who might be coming to stay with me for a while…”

Marta’s eyes light up. “I love making friends,” she tells him proudly.


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon, sitting on the train into London with one of Illya’s paperbacks in his hands, needs some time to identify the feeling that’s settled in his stomach.

He’s nervous.

It’s been building since late last night. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time. It’s not that he doesn’t get anxious – for all his levelheadedness, he _does_ work a high-stress job, and it gets to him sometimes. In particular, he thinks of back when he and Gaby and Illya were in the field together all the time, and that specific brand of dread, of _terror_ , that he learned to feel when he believed one or both of them to be in genuine danger. Or, a few times, he’s found himself the fulcrum upon which rest many innocent lives. He’s good at steadying the shake in his hands, but he still _feels_ it.

This is different, though. Leon’s life doesn’t depend on Napoleon diffusing a bomb or arresting a Nazi or nosing out a Maltese weapons dealer. It depends on him doing something far more difficult and less familiar to him – being a _parent_. Even taking his lifestyle out of the picture, he doesn’t know how to do that. He knows how to tell the micro-Kuryakins stories and make them laugh, how to sneak vegetables into their meals, even how to change diapers and rock a stubborn infant to sleep. He doesn’t even mind doing those things, if he’s being honest. He loves the girls to death, and he adores Alex now too. But he also knows that when his visit is done, he can go back to his life and Gaby and Illya will look after their children – all of their needs, and all of their wants as well. Can he do _that_ job? Year in, year out?

As he draws closer to the city, a new concern occurs to him: what if Leon doesn’t like him? He’s nine years old and coping with the loss of his mother. What reason would he have to like a father he’s never known? Napoleon knows that Karina and Marta and Alex are not the only children who like him – he’s dealt with occasional children on the job, and he does well. He’s good at being likable, and not just to women. Charisma is probably one of his greatest skills, he’s not too proud to admit. But there’s a lot more riding on this particular first impression than usual. If he and Leon can’t get along, his chances at successful fatherhood seem to go from slim to none.

Waverly had given him an out, when they spoke on the phone. “Listen, Solo,” he had said, and it hadn’t sounded like it was an easy conversation for him, either. “The boy doesn’t know I’m calling you. Cynthia never talked about you, as far as I can tell. He doesn’t have any expectations. I can tell the agency that you can’t be contacted, and he’ll be placed in foster care.”

Napoleon had said no outright. The boy deserved an _attempt_ from him, at very least. But now he worries – if they can’t make it work, will it just make Leon’s life more complicated, more painful? To know he has a father out there somewhere, but one who’s given up on acting like one? And he wonders, too – would he be able to bear it? Knowing he had a son, but the child was in the care of strangers?

This isn’t a useful exercise. He knows that. The novel forgotten in his lap, he tries to direct himself back to more positive thoughts. Maybe everything will be fine: maybe they’ll get along famously, and bond over art and food, and he can take the boy to all of his favourite cities and teach him everything he knows about the world.

Well, almost everything. He has a feeling it’s frowned upon to teach your child to pick locks, crack safes, disarm security systems.

And what about… Should a man, responsibly speaking, teach his son how to correctly seduce a woman? At what age does that become important? Should he wait until Leon asks? Napoleon starts to think there are some specific questions he ought to pose to Gaby and Illya, if he gets that far.

He manages to focus on the positives, by and large, but his stomach still feels heavy when he disembarks from the train, his palms unusually sweaty as he hails a cab. By the time he reaches the agency he feels a little sick, and he pauses outside to – absurdly – pull a pocketbook out of his suit jacket and jot down a note about _do kids make you feel this way a lot?_ because he’s starting to think if he doesn’t write down all of these questions he’s bound to forget some of them.

“Napoleon Solo,” he says to the receptionist, pleased to find that in spite of his nerves he can still put on a smile that makes a young woman look shyly away. “For Leon Peters.”

“Of course! He’s expecting you,” she says, getting up to lead the way.

 

As a whole, the first day is strangely middling. There is no magical connection, but no explosive disagreement, either. The boy is shy, understandably, and perhaps a little confused. With wide blue eyes, thick dark hair combed neatly and tucked behind his ears, and a teddy bear clutched in one arm, he’s the poster boy for sweet orphans in need of loving homes. With those dark eyelashes and the slight curl at the ends of his hair – they could put a child like this on television, Napoleon thinks. He does his best with the introduction, and Leon admits that Cynthia never mentioned his father. He’d wondered once in a while, he says, but not often. It wasn’t until his mother fell so ill that he’d even thought to consider who might take care of him if not her. Their landlady Mrs. Broom used to look after him when his mother was away, but she can’t take him in full-time. Talking about his mother seems to distress the boy, and he withdraws nervously.

Winging it – like he always is, really – Napoleon begins to talk about himself to fill the silence, and quickly notices how much his tone changes when he’s talking to a child. Has he always spoken to children this way? He can’t remember, now. He’s second-guessing every decision he makes, but he keeps talking, because the only alternative is to stop and he can’t see how that gets them anywhere.

After a few minutes they find they have some things in common. It seems Leon doesn’t really know what his mother did for a living, but he knows she travelled sometimes, and he’s memorised the atlas, daydreamed of all the places he’ll one day go. He likes the idea that Napoleon’s already been to most of the destinations on his list; likes even more the suggestion Napoleon makes that maybe they could spend their holidays abroad together. Leon is gentle and soft-spoken, for the most part – it amuses Napoleon, because he remembers Cynthia as adventurous, opinionated, energetic.

They talk for a while at the agency, under the watchful eye of a youth worker. Eventually Napoleon says, “I have some friends who live in the countryside. I’ve been staying with them. They have two little girls, a bit younger than you, and a baby boy. Would you be interested in coming to see them with me? I’ve heard you like to make friends.”

Leon squeezes the stuffed bear, thinking. “What are they like?” he asks.

Napoleon smiles. “They’re my very favourite people,” he answers. “My friends, Gaby and Illya, have been friends of mine for more than ten years. Gaby’s a small lady from Germany – a mechanic, by trade. She’s strong and loving and clever. And her husband, Illya, is a big Russian man, and he can be scary sometimes, but he’s really very kind. He loves his family more than anything.” He pauses, amused by himself. He’s never had to describe his partners before, especially not like this – it’s odd how he feels his affection blooming in his chest as he speaks. “They have two little girls, Karina and Marta. Karina is eight years old, and she looks like her mother, with brown hair and eyes, but she acts just like her father – quiet and smart and thoughtful. Marta is six and she looks like her father, with big blue eyes and blonde hair, but she’s friendly and talkative like her mother. And the little boy, Alex, is almost a year old, and just learning how to walk.”

“And they’re a nice family?” Leon asks shyly.

“Very nice,” Napoleon assures him. “They love to read, and listen to the radio, and dance, and play games. Their home is very cozy and surrounded by woods.”

“I like the woods,” Leon says, and he looks cautiously optimistic.

“Yeah? And how do you feel about trains?” Napoleon asks.

All of Leon’s possessions fit into a couple of suitcases. On the train, now alone with Napoleon, Leon retreats back into his shell a little, but Napoleon hates silence, so he talks about the places that pass outside the window. He’s taken the route often enough to know a bit, and knows England well enough to make up details to fill in the blanks. He just doesn’t know what will happen if it grows too quiet. Sometimes Leon asks questions, his curiosity piqued, but mostly he stares out the window and listens.

At the station nearest the Kuryakin household, Napoleon buys his son a little paper bag of candy, then carries his luggage out to the parking lot. He’s borrowed Gaby’s car – the one she uses to drive her family around, not the nice one, though god knows he tried – and as they drive through town he points out the school the girls go to, the radio station, the little café that serves _excellent_ coffee cake. Before long they’re flanked by fields and Napoleon is still talking because he doesn’t know what else to do – he’s telling Leon about the crops being grown in each field. Harvest season is just beginning and in the endless expanse that is ten minutes he finds himself explaining, for some reason, how a hay baler works. He can’t remember how he even knows that. Finally he reaches the trees and Leon ventures to ask, “We’re almost there?”

“Yes we are,” Napoleon answers, strangely relieved to hear the boy speak. He’s been so quiet since they left the agency it’s painful. Napoleon has never been the _biggest_ fan of silence, but he can’t recall ever being such a nervous talker, either. He can’t wait to get back home – strange, how he thinks of Gaby and Illya’s house as home, now – where there are more people to contribute to conversation. “These friends are like family, to me. I think you’ll like them a lot.”

“Family,” Leon repeats softly, almost more to himself (or perhaps to the teddy bear he’s still clutching) than to his father. Something in the tone resonates with Napoleon in a way that summons a sudden, unexpected lump to his throat. He swallows hard.

“I didn’t have a family for a long time,” he says carefully, eyes still on the road. “I didn’t know how much I was missing. Then I met Gaby and Illya and I found out.” Leon doesn’t say anything, so Napoleon ventures, “You haven’t really had a family either, have you? It was just you and your mother.” He turns right, pulls into the driveway, and finally glances down.

Leon meets his eye timidly and nods.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon says, although he’s not sure why.

“We were happy,” Leon tells him, dark brows furrowed. “She said that was the important part.”

“I think she was right,” Napoleon answers. He feels like, if he knew the boy better, this is where a hug would go, but he’s not sure. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through, Leon. But I’m going to try to be a good father to you, if I can. Do you want to see if you can be happy with me? And my family?”

Leon stares for a moment, then wipes his eyes, growing emotional for the first time since they met earlier that morning. Napoleon feels a strange twinge in his heart. He never really knew grief before he left for the war. He knows it’s been a month and change, now, since Cynthia died, and he feels badly that Leon’s been coping with that alone for so long. But then the boy takes a deep breath, meets Napoleon’s eye again, and nods. “Yes, please,” he answers quietly.

 

The front door leads straight into the kitchen, and Gaby and Illya are there when Napoleon opens the door and leads Leon inside. He puts the boy’s bags down on the floor and then turns to make introductions. “Leon, this is Gaby, and her husband Illya. Gabs, Peril, this is Leon.”

“Hi, Leon,” Gaby says, smiling warmly. “Are you hungry? We just finished eating lunch.”

Leon looks uncertainly up at Napoleon, then back to Gaby, nodding quietly. “I’m a little hungry,” he admits.

“Do you like grilled cheese?” she asks him. He nods again, so she turns around to where the bread and butter are still on the counter, and she gets to work. “Napoleon?” she asks.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Gabs,” he agrees. “I’ve worked up a bit of an appetite.”

Illya is on the other side of the island, where they have Alex’s high chair and a few stools. He pulls one out and pats the seat. “Come, Leon, sit,” he invites, and Napoleon thinks not for the first time that it’s good that the Peril can smile like that, because if he couldn’t no one under the height of six feet would ever find the courage to approach him.

Leon hesitates, then trots across the kitchen, clambering onto the stool and resting his stuffed bear on the island. Napoleon goes to the sink to wash his hands before he joins them.

“What is your bear’s name?” Illya asks. Napoleon smiles to himself as he listens – when they met he never would have believed that the man would know what to do with a child, but he was capable of great gentleness. Whatever didn’t come to him naturally, he had learned in becoming a father. Maybe it has something to do with the challenges of his own childhood; maybe going through those hardships has shown him what kind of softness a child deserves.

“He’s called Kipling,” Leon answers softly.

“Is good name,” Illya says with a nod. “Did Cowboy – this is what I call your father – did he tell you I have bear of my own?” He smiles as Napoleon sits down on Leon’s other side.

“Like Kipling?” Leon asks, frowning a little.

“Oh no,” Illya says, “I mean _real_ bear. His name is Kostya.”

Leon’s eyes widen a little, and Napoleon leans in. “Don’t listen to him, Leon,” he says. “Kostya is only a dog. A very big dog, but just a dog. And he’s very sweet.”

“Very sweet to _family_ ,” Illya points out, amused. “He is guard dog, though. His job is to protect my little girls. And now my little boy, as well.”

“Does he protect your whole family?” Leon asks, glancing down.

Over the boy’s head, Illya meets eyes with Napoleon, just for a moment. “Yes, Kostya protects whole family. My children, my wife, even me. And Cowboy, when he is here. And you are here, and you are Cowboy’s family, so now you are our family, and Kostya will protect you, too.”

Leon smiles shyly, fidgeting with his bear’s feet. Then he looks up at Napoleon. “Why does he call you Cowboy?”

Napoleon laughs a little. “It’s a nickname he’s always used for me,” he says.

“Is because he is American,” Illya explains. “And Americans are Cowboys, are they not? Come, you are English, you must know this.” Leon catches Illya’s grin, and he giggles a little. “Cowboy, he calls me Peril. We both have nicknames.”

“Why Peril?” Leon asks, and Napoleon pauses, wondering how much of international politics he wants to explain to this boy.

“Because he’s so big and scary,” he answers after a second. “When I met him he was very… grumpy. All I could think was that he looked dangerous.”

Soon Gaby delivers sandwiches, and they grow quiet for a few minutes while they eat. Afterwards the girls and the dog are called in from playing outside to meet Leon – he’s a little nervous about Kostya, who’s as big as he is, but he adjusts within an hour or so. Marta peppers him with questions, because she’s six years old and that’s all she does, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Then he sees Karina’s books on the living room shelf and asks about them, and the two of them spend an hour poring over a book of maps, sharing their knowledge. Karina’s a good student and likes to spend her time at home reading or learning from Illya, so she’s got plenty to share. Napoleon can’t help noticing the way Leon watches Karina with stars in his eyes, and suddenly he sees the whole future in front of him.

Alex is introduced as well, when he wakes up from his nap, and Leon seems charmed. “I’ve never held a baby before,” he tells the girls when Alex sits in his lap, and he giggles when Alex starts to blow bubbles.

As a whole, the day feels fairly good. Leon is shy, and clearly more comfortable with the girls than any of the adults. After supper – cooked mostly by Napoleon, and he’s grateful when Leon seems to enjoy it – the children go into the living room to listen to the radio and play with the dog. Gaby puts Alex to bed while Napoleon and Illya wander into the backyard to start a fire in the pit Illya built years ago. It’s autumn, but the evening is mild. They’re just settling into their chairs when Gaby joins them.

All three are quiet for a few minutes. Finally, Gaby says, “He looks like you.”

“Does he?” Napoleon asks. Oddly, he hasn’t really thought about it.

She nods. “The hair is the obvious part. The colour and texture are yours. And his nose is yours, too. He has his mother’s eyes, though, only blue like yours. The cheekbones are hers.”

“Cowboy’s skill for language, too,” Illya chips in, and when Napoleon quirks an eyebrow, he explains, “While you were cooking dinner, my girls were teaching him Russian.” He’s almost smug.

Napoleon spares a laugh and turns back to Gaby. “Did you… know Cynthia?” he asks slowly.

She nods. “I had to think about it for a while,” she tells him. “But it came back to me. We met a handful of times. I never worked with her in the field, but she consulted with me when she had a mission in East Berlin once. And we crossed paths every so often. She was a good agent. I had no idea she had a son.”

“Mm.” Napoleon shifts in his seat, looking down into the fire. “Apparently she preferred not to share.”

Gaby narrows her eyes. “Tell us what you’re thinking, Napoleon,” she says gently.

He leans his head back, sighing deeply. “It’s hard to know,” he admits. “You both know I never meant for this. But now I’m a father and I… don’t know how to be. But I can’t leave him to someone else. It’s a lot all at once.”

“He is good boy,” Illya says. There’s a smile in his eyes as he adds, “Nothing like you.” Napoleon affords him another small laugh. “You could do worse, for sudden son. I think even you can handle this one, Cowboy.”

“There’s a lot to figure out,” Napoleon sighs. “I don’t have a permanent home. I spend most of my time zipping around the world, working a dangerous job. It’s… not a lifestyle that well suits parenthood.”

Illya and Gaby exchange a glance. “We make it work,” she says slowly.

“That’s true,” he admits. “But you two spend a lot less time in the field than I do now. You spend as much time down in the garage as up in the office, Gabs, and only go out on a few missions a year. And Peril does more as a training officer than anything else these days.” In fact, they rarely even go into UNCLE’s head office in London any more – they do most of their work in a nearby facility, set up in the countryside where there’s room for training and R&D departments to spread out without drawing too much attention.

“UNCLE’s _best_ training officer,” Illya points out. He hesitates, then leans forward. “Cowboy… you are forty-five. How much longer do you plan to be full-time field agent? How much longer do you think they will _let_ you be full-time field agent?”

“Are you saying I’m past my prime, Peril?” Napoleon asks, a little incensed.

“No,” Illya answers. “Only suggesting you try something new, like planning your own future. Especially now that you must plan for son, as well.”

 

The three of them talk for a long time before retreating back inside. The radio is still on in the living room, and Marta is asleep against Kostya’s side, his long coat full of tiny braids. On the couch, Karina and Leon have fallen asleep as well, their heads together in the middle of the sofa, a stack of books next to them and Leon’s bear held tight under one of his arms.

“I set up extra cot in your room this morning,” Illya tells Napoleon softly. Then he crouches to scoop his youngest daughter up off the floor (and the dog) so he can take her to bed, and Kostya lets out a grateful-sounding grumble, rolling over. Gaby turns off the radio and begins putting Karina’s books away as Napoleon goes to pick up his son. He’s done this before, for the girls, but this time is strange nonetheless.

“I have a son,” he murmurs, settling the boy carefully against his shoulder.

“Yes you do,” Gaby agrees, standing up and looking him in the eye. “And you’re going to be fine. You’re both going to be fine.”

With one hand under Leon’s legs and the other on his back, Napoleon takes a breath, then nods at her. “Yes. We are.” He turns and heads for the stairs. “Good night, Gabs,” he says, as Illya returns for his other daughter.

Up in his room above the garage, Napoleon tucks Leon into the cot. He’s a little surprised the boy didn’t wake up at all, but then, it’s probably been an exhausting day. He sits on the edge of the mattress and watches Leon’s sleeping face by the moonlight coming in through the window.

He _does_ recognise his own nose, now that he’s thinking about it.

Eventually he sighs and gets up to ready himself for bed as well. Tomorrow he has phone calls to make – first to Waverly, to talk about the terms of his employment, which he knows will be a long discussion. Then he’ll need to call the local real estate agent. Maybe the school as well.

What little part of him he’d let indulge the thought of retirement had always kind of liked the idea of settling down near Gaby and Illya, much as he’d deny it if they asked. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling him it’s time to start slowing down. Time to look after himself, for once.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been a month, now, since Napoleon closed the deal on the farmhouse down the road from Gaby and Illya. He and Leon are still settling in, still adjusting to each other and to this new life. For the first two weeks Napoleon was on leave, having his things brought in from his flat in the city, buying furniture for Leon, doing his best to get to know the boy. There were ups and downs – Leon was still grieving his mother, and sometimes he didn’t seem to know what to do or how to feel. Napoleon’s best strategy, it turned out, was usually to walk with Leon down the road to spend as much of the day with the Kuryakins as possible – Leon seems more comfortable with the group, and with other children. After they’d had a little time to settle in, Napoleon had gotten Leon enrolled at the school, and he himself had started going back to work. Gaby’s been working reduced hours for a few years so she can pick the girls up at the end of the day, and now she picks up Leon too.

Napoleon is trying his best. He buys a big world map and mounts it on a wall, and he and Leon spend an afternoon marking it with pushpins – red for where Napoleon has been (well, where he’s allowed to say he’s been), blue for everywhere on Leon’s travel list. As they mark it, they talk: Leon sharing what he knows about various destinations, Napoleon telling stories of his travels. He can’t be too specific, but Leon knows now that Napoleon and Illya and Gaby work for the government and that what they do is very important – for now, that’s all he needs to know – so Napoleon talks mostly about time spent between one danger and the next: shopping in distant markets, sightseeing in big cities, boat rides and four-seater airplane flights. Soon he knows he’ll also have to explain that his job is dangerous sometimes – apparently Cynthia never spoke about her work with Leon, but Illya is firm about maintaining a certain level of candidness with his daughters, and Napoleon wants Leon to get that talk from _him_ rather than from Karina and Marta. But for now he sticks to the happy parts.

Other investments have included a good-sized bookshelf for Leon’s room, to house his atlases and schoolbooks, and some travel guides and language manuals he’s purloined from Napoleon’s own collection. A shelf and a half remain empty, and Napoleon promises they’ll fill the space together. He’s also bought a television set for the living room – something he’d never bothered to buy himself before, but it turns out that Leon watched a lot of TV while staying with his landlady in London, and he’s fascinated in particular with science fiction. Napoleon has never watched much TV before, but together they watch Twilight Zone and Star Trek reruns, and of course Doctor Who. It all feels rather silly to Napoleon, but Leon adores it, and so he enjoys it as well – the boy’s enthusiasm is hard to resist. Sometimes they sit down to work on Leon’s homework together, too, though it often gets done at the Kuryakin household right after school, because that’s the habit Karina and Marta are being raised to keep. Karina and Leon like to work on their reading homework together, and while Leon isn’t fond of math, he’s learned that Illya is usually more helpful with numbers than Napoleon is. He does, however, often save his history or geography for home, because he knows Napoleon likes those subjects.

Napoleon can’t always tell how their relationship is doing. When they’re talking about things that Leon finds interesting, or when they’re around other people, the boy’s usually cheerful and responsive, but sometimes when they’re alone at home he retreats a little. He doesn’t often want to talk about his mother. And he doesn’t always seem to know how to talk to Napoleon – how to start conversations, or ask for things. Napoleon is trying to encourage him to talk more, because he wants to _know_ what Leon is thinking, wants to hear what the boy wants to eat or do or see. Once a week the youth worker calls from the agency, first to speak with Napoleon, and then to Leon, privately. Napoleon reports that progress is slow but steady, and hopes that Leon has been feeling the same way.

After a couple weeks back to work, Napoleon comes home with Illya at the end of a long and boring Friday (he hates paperwork) and is gratified by the smile Leon shoots him when they come in the door. He’s usually in a good mood when he’s been with the girls, but Napoleon still finds relief in every positive sign.

“Stop worrying like that,” Gaby murmurs to him, because she can read him like a book. “He likes you.”

“I know,” Napoleon answers softly, hanging his jacket by the door. “How was he today?”

“As well-behaved as always,” she says with a smile. Then, “He called you his father today.”

“Did he really?” he asks in surprise.

She nods. “Just in passing. But it was the first time I’ve heard him say it like that - without stopping to think.”

Illya claps Napoleon on the shoulder. “You will make good father yet, Cowboy,” he teases.

Napoleon slips through to the living room, where Marta is enthusiastically attacking a large sheet of paper with three crayons at once, using both hands. Nearby, Karina and Leon are both responsibly reading their schoolbooks on the loveseat. Napoleon sits down on the floor and leans against the sofa, between their legs, raising a hand up over his head. “Let’s see what they’re having you kids read in school these days, hm?”

A book lands in his hands, and he brings it down to investigate. It’s Karina’s – a well-loved copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. “A classic,” he says with an approving nod. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Mhm,” she answers, nodding when he glances over his shoulder at her. “It’s very silly. But I like it. Sometimes I read to Alex when he’s fussy.”

“That’s a great idea,” Napoleon tells her. “Helping your parents out a little, eh?”

She nods again. “Alex likes stories. Papa tells us Russian fairy tales all the time, and they’re Alex’s favourites.”

“It’s true!” Leon chips in. “When he wants stories he yells ‘ _baba gaga! baba gaga!_ ’ because he can’t say _Baba Yaga_ yet.”

Napoleon laughs. “Learning to speak baby, are we?”

“No,” Leon giggles. “But Karina's teaching me more Russian! And Gaby says I can learn German, too!”

“I’ll have to make sure I keep practicing just so I can make sure to keep up with you two,” Napoleon jokes. “I wouldn’t want you keeping _secrets_ from me, now.”

Both children giggle at this, the mere idea of keeping secrets from the grownups an absolute delight. For the first time, Marta looks up from the drawing she’s been so intent on, grinning. “We’re good at languages, Uncle Napoleon,” she reasons cheerfully. “Maybe we’ll all make up our own language so we can keep lots of secrets from you and Mama and Papa!”

“I do not know about this,” Illya says, leaning in the doorway and fixing her with a playfully suspicious look. “I am _very_ good at cracking secret codes, _zaichik_.”

Leon taps Napoleon’s shoulder. “That means _bunny_ ,” he says proudly.

Napoleon raises his eyebrows at the boy. “You spend too much time with this family,” he reports. “Your Russian is going to be better than mine in no time.” Leon beams.

“Mm, your Russian is not so good to begin with, Cowboy,” Illya teases, eyes sparkling. “Little Boy Blue is maybe already doing better than you.” He settled on this nickname a couple weeks ago, while reading nursery rhymes with Marta, and Leon is thrilled. Having a nickname from Illya makes him feel like he’s really a part of the family now, Napoleon suspects.

“Well!” Napoleon throws his hands in the air, defeated. “It seems to me that you Kuryakins are raising my son for me! I may as well just give up and let _you_ be his father, Peril!”

The kids are all giggling again. The friendly rivalry between Illya and Napoleon seems to entertain them to no end, and the two men will gladly play it up for hours at a time just to make the children laugh. “Don’t be silly,” Leon says, laughing and leaning forward in his seat until he can drape his arms around Napoleon’s neck in some semblance of a hug. “I don’t look anything _like_ Gaby and Illya. Everyone would still be able to tell that _you’re_ my dad.”

Napoleon pauses then, still looking up at Illya in the doorway, and he can’t miss the warm look Illya gives him. He definitely can’t miss the warmth rising in his own chest. It’s the first time he’s heard that word out of the boy’s mouth. _Father_ has come up a couple of times, but mostly Leon has altogether avoided addressing him by any name, apparently undecided on what he felt comfortable with. But suddenly Napoleon is _Dad_ and it’s something he never, ever would have imagined for himself, but for a moment there he never wants to be anything else ever again.

He reaches up and hugs Leon back, his arms going awkwardly around the boy’s shoulders, and they both laugh. “All right, all right,” Napoleon says. “I guess I’ll have to keep you then, hm?”

“But we will maybe still borrow him sometimes,” Illya jokes as Gaby appears at his side with a recently-awakened Alex. “After all, he is very helpful. Sweeps floors.”

“Well, all right,” Napoleon concedes. “But only if I still get to borrow yours sometimes, too.”

“Deal,” Gaby agrees. “Now, who’s going to help decide what’s for supper?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Let me know if you'd be interested in more Leon stories - I have ideas for a few...! I love writing family fluff, aaa)


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